


The Fall

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic Lore, Character Study, Crowley's Fall, During Armageddon, I very much ran away with the idea so liberties have been taken, I'm not religious so please forgive me for any errors in this depiction, The Fall - Freeform, he's traumatized but it's fine we all are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:38:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Crowley never meant to fall, of course. When asked, he liked to say that he sauntered vaguely downwards, but that was just to preserve his dignity. "Sauntering vaguely downwards" implied some sort of choice-- a decision consciously made and executed with a certain amount of style and attitude. "Spending time with the wrong people" supported the swaggering bad-boy image he was expected to uphold, and the idea of rebellion against unjust authority was a rather romantic concept.In reality, he had not been given a choice, but saying you had been unceremoniously dumped into an infinite pit of boiling sulphur didn't exactly sound as jazzy.





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fanfic ever and it's also un-beta'd, so please be kind,,
> 
> As my username suggests, I need a creative outlet, and writing is the most accessible to me, so here I am. Fair warning though: I haven't done any sort of creative writing since high school, so try to be gentle with me...I'll admit I'm very rusty
> 
> Also, fun fact: the idea of the ground tipping back was inspired by the feeling people often get when having panic attacks, and I remember the first time I had one I was confused and terrified, but at least that memory resulted in this (ignoring the fact that it's almost a decade after the fact)
> 
> I haven't read the book yet, but my summer courses are just wrapping up now, so I should have time to soon! I've only seen the series, so I'm a Fake Fan, but I've read a lot of FF of it on here since. If you have the opportunity to, I would highly recommend that you pirate the show (I used 123movies), because Amazon as a company is...not excellent.
> 
> Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy !

During The Armageddon That Wasn't, Crowley had felt the ground tip as his master rose from the depths to greet his (retroactively-not-)son. Having already been overwhelmed by the loss of his one and only prized material object mere minutes before, not to mention being faced with the possibility of the end of the world and the loss of the only constant in his life for the past 6000 years, Crowley had been feeling a bit fragile. The confrontation marked a change in the tide, and as such, the smoke from the burning Bentley and the smell of burning rubber was directed towards the airfield. He fell to his knees and mumbled some unclear and indistinct protestations--ones he would later insist were not prayers-- his words taking all his effort and energy to force out as if his insides were being filled with a thick, slow-moving tar. The combination of the ground tilting back beneath his feet, the ashes in his eyes, and the stench of burnt rubber pulled him involuntarily into past. Before Armageddon, before the ark, before Eden.

Crowley never meant to fall, of course. When asked, he liked to say that he sauntered vaguely downwards, but that was just to preserve his dignity. "Sauntering vaguely downwards" implied some sort of choice-- a decision consciously made and executed with a certain amount of style and attitude. "Spending time with the wrong people" supported the swaggering bad-boy image he was expected to uphold, and the idea of rebellion against unjust authority was a rather romantic concept.  
In reality, he had not been given a choice, but saying you had been unceremoniously dumped into an infinite pit of boiling sulphur didn't exactly sound as jazzy.

The individual who would later be known as Crowley had been asking too many questions. He knew that. To question the Great Plan was not only to question the authorities in Heaven, but God herself. This newfangled idea of "free will" wasn't exactly compatible with the Plan, so the entities responsible for the dissemination of such notions had to be stopped. To appeal to angels' senses of morality and pre-programmed love for humanity, in open defiance of the Great Plan, was particularly dangerous, and to spread doubt and disloyalty was to betray Heaven. The damnation of these angels was for the greater good, of course. Sacrificing perfectly good soldiers was unfortunate, but the implications of their ideas of independence from destiny were simply too dangerous, and the risks they posed outweighed the twangs of regret they might feel for their fallen brethren. Heaven had enough to deal with without having to manage the confusion and panic these sorts of questions might cause.

The first thing he had felt was a paralyzing fear--one he would feel the echoes of for eternity-- as if his Grace had sensed what was to come. Even if he wanted to, he knew he couldn't move; he knew that if he so much as breathed, he would Fall. Powerless, he stood in frozen silence as the sterile, white floor beneath him began to tip back. For a moment, he was stuck to the floor-come-trapdoor (the kinks of gravity were still being worked out), but when heat-- heat like no celestial being had ever felt before-- sweltered up from the void below, his self-preservation instincts kicked in, and he threw himself forward, desperately trying to scramble up the hatchway. He knew if he looked back it would be over. He didn't know what was below and behind him, but understood in the core of his being that he would not survive. In a way, he had been right.

Seeing Heaven from below is a once-in-eternity experience. If one were to look past the fact that they are whizzing through an endless void (at somehow both infinity and negative infinity kilometers per hour) with no signs of stopping but for the fetor of decaying meat and rotten eggs growing ominously closer, they might even be struck by the endless expanse of flat, immaculate flooring (broken only by the jagged space where he had exited) getting farther and farther away. The only comparable feeling is the awe of nature-- when a person is hit with the miraculous and astonishing nature of the world around them. When their focus narrows to make it seem as if the sight in front of them is all that exists.

Crowley certainly felt something being knocked out of him. He felt his physical form torn up by unseen hands and greedy claws, his muscles and tendons snapping as they were ripped apart. He felt his Grace-- the all-encompassing love he was Created with-- shatter and splinter like a delicate shell in the fist of a toddler. He bled unbearable fire, then unfeeling ice, until his ethereal essence ran out and he was left hollow and empty. Even immortal entities often fail to recognize what they have before it's gone, and though he wasn't quite sure what, Crowley had knew that he had lost something by the hungry ache in his core.

After both forever and no time at all, he felt himself sink below the surface. He steeled himself for the end, trying to relax and quiet the shrieking and screeching in his mind. As he settled down into the bubbling, syrupy substance Below, Crowley did his best to feel at peace as the congealed, foul-smelling swill swallowed him whole.

It almost felt as if he were relaxing. His mangled body loosed and sank into the orange goo as if he were submitting to a much-needed sleep, but the feeling continued past the point of comfort. Not only was he sinking, he realized, he was melting into the sludge around him. He moved to scream only to realize he no longer had a mouth to open, much less a face or vocal cords.

As a celestial being, Crowley had knowledge of the world's creatures. Butterflies and moths held a special place in his consciousness for their beauty; their delicacy and almost-divine grace came as a direct result of such strangeness and hardship in their transitional stages. Though he did not know what was waiting on the other side, he knew that he too was undergoing a transformation as he felt his body form and take shape in the surrounding radioactive sludge.

His head broke the surface of the slime (if a surface can be called that if it's at the bottom rather than the top), and he gasped for air, despite not needing to. His heart restarted, pounding in his suddenly hypersensitive ears, and his new eyes adjusted quickly to the vague, damp darkness around him.

He looked up to see the Hellish grey darkness bleeding into the present, overtaking a bright blue summer sky. His Master burst from the depths Below, and he steeled himself for a fight. He couldn't go back.


End file.
